The Hot Gate - [Troy Rising 03]

by John Ringo

  The chairs had mostly stopped moving due to air drag. So she took “toss” and Angelito took “catch and lock.” Another way that she’d got him to quit messing around since she could be brutal with a chair toss in the cargo compartment.

  Instead, starting from the front of the compartment, she’d just nudge a chair at him and move on to the next floating box. Angelito, meanwhile, was locked down to the deck, doing the “grav thump” walk.

  “And latch...”

  Click, thump.

  “Incoming...”

  “And latch...”

  Click, thump.

  “Incoming...”

  “Need a hand?” Palencia said.

  “And latch.”

  “Valdez, Tarrago and Sans,” Dana replied. “Incoming... You go check the scuttle bucket. We’re going somewhere. I’d kinda like to know where.”

  “Will do.”

  “And see what Vila’s status is. Incoming...”

  “Why are we going anywhere?” Angelito asked as the other three came swarming into the boat. “Don’t we have boarders?”

  “Yep,” Dana said. “And I hope they’re enjoying the rat maze.”

  * * * *

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Come to the cheese, little Rangora,” Sergeant First Class Mat Del Papa said.

  The maintenance tunnels of the Thermopylae and the Troy were, somewhat intentionally, a labyrinth. They ran in zig-zags, created by placing mirrors so SAPL beams could mine them out. Quite often a tunnel would lead nowhere. Sometimes that was because that portion of the plan was unfinished. Sometimes it was because some joker of an engineer thought it would add to the maze.

  If the Pathans didn’t know them like the back of their hands, they knew them pretty well. General Denny figured that since they were Islamic, meaning they couldn’t party, they had nothing to do but train. So the brigade had spent about sixty hours a week in the tunnels.

  Despite that fact, and that the only gravity was the extremely minor pull of the Thermopylae, they weren’t all that good in micro. The reason that they weren’t good in micro was that somewhat early in the unit’s career a private had developed an extremely odd method of movement. Called “grav skating,” it was at first strictly prohibited, then later accepted and encouraged.

  The grav boots of the suits had various adjustments. One was a combination of repulsor and tractor that could maintain a specific distance and acceleration from a surface. Del Papa had no clue what its original purpose was, but the Pathans used it to skate. By adjusting so that the “pull” was relatively low, but high enough to keep them near the surface and so that they never could quite contact the surface with the full boot, they could “kick” with the sides of their boots and slide along at about the same height as an air-hockey puck.

  “They’re coming,” Private Sarban Khan said.

  He slid down the corridor at about nine meters per second, slid up the opposite bulkhead to bleed off speed, then over the top and down to the hatch. With a flip he was in the side tunnel.

  “You’re gonna kill yourself doing that, Sarban.” The kid made most skateboard junkies look tame.

  Like the Koreans Del Papa had also worked with, the Pashtun seemed to only have about three family names. Major Sangar Khan, First Sergeant Daryab Khan, Sarban Khan... so they got used to using first names.

  “You should leave, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Olasyar Khan said. “We are faster than you.”

  “One burst,” Del Papa said, starting to “skate” down the tunnel. Badly. “Just one. Do not try to hold this ground.”

  “With what they have waiting for them?” Lieutenant Olasyar said. “Allah forbid.”

  Del Papa, for all he tried, just could not get the hang of grav skating. The best he could do was to sort of push himself along with one foot and his navpak.

  One flailing hand reflected a burst of red light and his local channel caught the giggles. It was just one of fifteen or twenty odd things about the Pathan. They tended to giggle when they shot someone.

  “Two shots,” Lieutenant Olasyar said, skating past him on the bulkhead. “We got their point so we must show them the way, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Del Papa said.

  “Make way for the advisor,” Lieutenant Olasyar said as Del Papa reached the joint tube. Three of the Pashtun had already slithered into it.

  The joint tube looked like a laser tube. Why it was there Del Papa had no clue. Maybe it was used to move mirrors or something.

  The important point was that it didn’t seem to go anywhere but in fact connected to another main corridor through about five meters of NI.

  The team slithered into the tube one by one, like so many snakes, and was gone by the time the furious Rangora platoon made it to the corridor.

  * * * *

  “They went down there, Lieutenant,” Private Bifen said. “They killed Alosho then took off down this corridor.”

  “Sergeant Wuththuy,” Lieutenant Lanniph snapped, “new point team.” He tossed a sensor ball down the corridor just to make sure they weren’t coming back.

  Fighting in this maze of corridors had been an eggdream. Automapping systems were slowly building up a picture of the combat zone, and it was apparent that the humans were either quite crazed or had deliberately set out to make their maintenance tunnels mazes. From the fighting evidence, either might be the case. The worst part was that they simply would not stand. It was all like this. Lose a point man. Chase them down. Lose them in the tunnels. Try to find a more direct route to the central zones. Lose a point man.

  Frankly, though, it was effective. Current estimates were that they were losing five Rangora for every human. And now they were encountering explosive traps. It took a lot of explosive to damage a Rangora combat suit. It was apparent the humans had been expending a good bit of resources on explosives.

  “Ilugach, Zhogiruv.”

  “Shells of the Emperor, why me again?”

  “Because you complain about it.”

  Lanniph tuned it out. He was a cracker, what humans would call a “mustang,” a former enlisted who made the very difficult jump to the officer class after Tuxughah. Making the jump was difficult in the Empire. You either were officer class or you were not. He’d never have many messmates. But if he could survive long enough to make it to colonel, and reproduce, his offspring would be permanently in the officer caste.

  Ambition could wait. Survive was the operative word. Which was why he damned sure wasn’t going to lead by example.

  “Move em out, Sergeant.”

  * * * *

  Pathans were not shock infantry. The USMC concept of “you’ve won if one Marine is standing on the hill and ninety-nine are dead on the slope” was anathema to them. Their entire war culture was based around raid and ambush. Which was what had made them such lethal guerillas against the Russian and NATO forces.

  Back in the “old, old days” when they fought the British, they’d been master shooters. But, possibly because of the losses in the Soviet War and the decided lack of game, they’d sort of lost the pure Pathan marksmanship the British had so admired.

  However, their great grandfathers against the Soviets and grandfathers against the Americans had made up for it by becoming really good at IEDs. The battles against the “Crusaders” had attracted some really great “engineers,” explosive experts, from around the world. Many of whom, at least those that didn’t blow themselves up or run afoul of a Predator drone, eventually settled down and raised a passel of little ticking time bombs. It eventually got to the point that IEDs were sort of the national sport. Pathans thought of them the way that American kids thought of football and Halo.

  General Denny was definitely a “take that hill” kind of guy. But he’d also recognized that Pathans weren’t, by and large, going to walk into laser fire just to soak it up.

  So the battle plan played to their strengths. Get the Rangora turned around. Get them angry and frustrated. Then lead them into the kill zones.

 
“There they are...” Lieutenant Olasyar whispered.

  “They can’t hear you,” Del Papa pointed out.

  “Are they going to go for it?” Sergeant Mashal asked.

  “We’ll see...” Del Papa said.

  * * * *

  “Looks clear...” Line Private Zhogiruv commed, doubtfully. “No sign of the enemy force. Corridor is open. Slight bend at about sixty meters. No laser signatures, no power emissions.”

  “Keep moving,” Sergeant Wuththuy commed. “Got your back.”

  “It’s my front that has me worried,” Ilugach muttered.

  “What was that, Private?”

  “Fully rass-ki, Sergeant!” Ilugach commed. “Just totally involved in this mission. Being on point. Again.”

  “Just shut up and keep your sensors up—”

  The Rangora had some awesome systems for detecting IEDs. Any trace of power systems was likely to be detected.

  Which was why this IED was based entirely around chemical systems and a single, molecule thin line of nanotube.

  Line Private Zhogiruv didn’t even feel the gentle brush of the microscopic tripwire.

  Nor the impact of the far bulkhead on his helmet’s faceplate.

  * * * *

  Rangora infantry fought in unpowered partial armor, a multiweave suit of high tensile composites and heavy plates of carbon nanotube. The Terran Marines, with access to Glatun advanced technologies and fabbers, used nanotube armor with fullerene plates, giving them about a thirty percent armor advantage on the Rangora.

  Neither of which would have helped when an entire wall full of heavy explosive shaped charges detonated in the middle of the platoon. They were cleverly hidden behind a thin sheet of nickel iron, which degraded their effect slightly. But not enough to help. Especially given that they were wrapped in high explosive for added effect.

  Lieutenant Lanniph came to in the original corridor. There was a slight hissing by his ear, indicating a breach in his helmet. But as he listened he could hear the auto repair systems sealing it. Checking his air, he found he hadn’t lost much. A few breaths at most.

  What he had lost was his platoon. Readouts indicated only three functional suits. His and the point team’s.

  A power signature appeared in the corridor and a sensor ball came bouncing out of a narrow tube that looked as if it was for cabling. Considering it carefully, he realized the minuscule humans could have fit into it.

  The sensor ball bounced on the floor and started its programmed search.

  “Crack you,” Lanniph muttered, zapping the thing with his laser. “Cracking mammals!”

  * * * *

  “Two meters apart and staggered,” Del Papa said. “Ten meters between the point and the main body. Exactly according to their manual. The only thing they did out-of-spec was their platoon leader was at the rear. Not the act of a natural leader, that.”

  “Good shot,” Lieutenant Khan said. “Didn’t like the sensor ball.”

  “Neither did your granddads,” Del Papa said. “Okee-dokee. Company, Team Six.”

  “Six, Company.”

  “Crispy lizards. Mission.”

  “Downloading”

  “And we begin again.”

  * * * *

  “Dex, get me the Ogut ship commander,” Clemons said.

  “The Ogut, sir?” Guptill replied then shook his head. “Oh, the pantywaists?”

  “That is our primary mission,” Clemons pointed out.

  * * * *

  “Mission of the One-Four-Third Tactical Assault Squadron is to return to Terra System...”

  “Yes!” Angelito said.

  “... To assist One-Four-Two Tactical Assault Squadron in reinforcement maneuvers.”

  “Damnit!”

  “One-Four-Three will load Third Battalion, Second Marine Regiment for counterassault on Rangora forces occupying the surface of the Thermopylae Battlestation. Undocking procedures will begin within the hour. One-Four-Three will follow Battleship Battle Group Nine exit to outer zone of action. That is all.”

  “Thermal, Comet.”

  “Go.”

  “What’s the hold-up? Our birds are up. BBG taking its time?”

  “Main door is welded shut from impacts.”

  “Oh,” Parker said, shaking her head. “That has to suck.”

  * * * *

  “Sir, incoming from the Thermopylae commander, Admiral Clemons.”

  As part of the negotiations, each group was allowed a security detachment. Realistically, nobody was going to assassinate the diplomats and, as this furball had proven, it wasn’t like they could protect them if war broke out. It was space. They couldn’t disguise themselves as women and slip through enemy lines.

  Security Chief Lahela Corrigan, known as Kamalila—Hawaiian for Shadow—to her very few friends, was a very good bodyguard. She had an innate “bump” for situations and people. She knew, often before the subjects, when people were going to lose it. She could spot a threat by just glancing at a crowd.

  It hadn’t, however, taken a world-class security expert to know that the Eridani negotiations were going to go south in some form or fashion. Among other things, the Horvath were involved. And none of the polities, including Earth, wanted the Ogut to bring in a battle wagon.

  Now they were sitting in a converted Ogut freighter in the middle of a space battle and she was left to twiddle her thumbs and wonder when an errant missile was going to destroy her perfect record.

  So she might as well play receptionist.

  “The Ogut let it through?” James Horst asked.

  The Ogut had been quite accommodating in providing both sides with as much of the tactical view of the battle as was available from their ship screens. Nor had they acceded to the Horvath demands that the humans be turned over to the squids. However, they were also staying well away from the battle between the heavyweights. If they were “discussing” with the Rangora what was now, obviously, a set-up, the humans weren’t involved.

  Horst had, therefore, been spending half the time watching two hundred billion dollars worth of space fortress getting, apparently, slagged and wondering just why the Rangora were so desperate to take Earth. This little diplomatic faux pas was, in fact, a very big deal. The Rangora had created a condition of existential threat during a negotiation the Ogut Empire had personally guaranteed would lack same. The only thing that could create a greater casus belli would be actually boarding the ship to capture the human negotiators.

  “More complicated than that, sir,” Kamalila replied, quietly. “The Rangora had to have opened up a channel to get it through.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Horst said. “Yes, please, put him through.”

  “Envoy.”

  Horst had never met the commander of Thermopylae and wondered what he thought about his battlestation getting pounded to scrap.

  “Admiral,” Horst said. “A pleasure to hear from you.”

  “Glad to see you’re still intact,” Clemons said. “To be clear, you and your personnel are all secure?”

  “The code is Naples, Admiral,” Horst said, meaning that he was not being held under duress. “The Ogut have the Horvath and the Rangora, and ourselves, closed into separate zones. We’re quite comfortable. They’ve even provided us with views of the battle.”

  “It’s not bad,” Clemons said, affecting a slight Welsh accent. “I’ve ‘ad worse.

  “Only a flesh wound?” Horst said, smiling faintly.

  “Our original mission was to return you to Earth, Envoy,” the admiral said seriously. “As per that mission, we have two choices. We can pound all these lizards to scrap, then ask the Ogut nicely to cough you up. It’s already been noted that Horvath and Rangora diplomatic personnel are free to go. However, there is still a possibility of an accident when several billion megatons of firepower are being thrown around the system. There’s a bit of a pause at the moment and we’d like to get you out so we can get down to some serious ass-whuppin.”

  “If
it can be arranged that would be prudent,” Horst said. “However, the Rangora would have to be in agreement. And the Horvath, I suppose.”

  “That would seem to be an area called negotiations, Envoy,” Clemons said, grinning. “However, I suggest you hurry. This temporary fire halt isn’t going to last very long.”